


Taking Pains

by BirdyMarie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdyMarie/pseuds/BirdyMarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles crawls his ass to Hale House to escape an Alpha attack, not thinking past that point.  Thankfully, Derek is there to take his pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Rushed as hell. Unbeta'd. More to come. Sorry for POV change, I don't know why that happened but it did.

    Stiles crashed and dragged his own sorry ass through the woods, not bothering with covering his trail or keeping quiet on the fucking leaves, nothing was out here with him anyway.  He was completely alone.  “Old, alone, done for,” he intoned on a whim, because it floated through his head like so much other flotsam was wont to do, wondering what kind of ripples the movie quote would make in the woods.  Deaton had been teaching him about the power of belief, how to use it with his special snowflake sparkiness, and from what Stiles could tell there was a lot to it like the Force and a lot to it like the magic from Wheel of Time.  If you don’t let shit touch you, it can’t.  “Old, alone, done for.”   
    Maybe that was a bad mantra to be spouting off.  Ecology class.  Homeostasis is maintained in food chains because predators cull the oldest and the weakest from the herd.  Humans were supposed to be predators, too, though.  You could tell by how weak their offspring were.  He had to see his doctor about adding fives to his adderall regimen, he was awake too long nowadays for the time-release twenties he was currently taking to stay effective as long as he needed them to.  He shook his head, trying to get himself the fuck out of it and back in the woods with the rest of him.  
    And then he saw the unmistakable bones of Hale House rising through the trees and he laughed while he cried and got up as much as he could to run the last little bit to flop inside the specifically warded circle he had put there himself to keep out non-pack members.  He lay for a moment, looking up at the stars, trying to find what constellations he could to assess his mental faculties, trying to think of anything but the flaming pain all down his right flank.  Then it was up and at ‘em again.  He marvelled once again over the self v. self phenomenon as he called it.  He simultaneously made an atrocious noise at the pain of movement and judged himself for it in the back of his mind.  He did the same thing while drunk or feverish.  He wondered if anyone else ever did that.  
    “Okay you cocky fucks,” he said to no one, because no one was there when he got inside.  “You lived here, you had to cistern it up somewhere.  But where.”  He made it a few steps past the stairs before it felt like a wave of fire went over his skin and he hit his knees, one hand on the shaky wall.  He swore freely, thinking of that article that said cursing after you stub your toe or something triggers fight or flight centers in your brain and kicks up your adrenaline so you don’t feel the pain.    
    “Stiles?”  A hand landed on his shoulder  
    “ _Jesus tapdancing Christ_ ,” he shrieked as he fell forward, spinning to his back to lash out with both feet wildly.  Because he was old alone done for and if anyone could fight the spark it was probably Deucalion.    
    But it was Derek, and he caught both of Stiles’ ankles, lifting his hips off the floor, brows furrowed and nostrils flared, mouth slightly open in question.  Stiles breathed for a minute, relishing the way parts of his shirt fell away from the burn on his side in this position.    
    Then he barked a laugh in relief.  Things were starting to get fuzzy.    
###########################################################################  
    Derek looked down at the teen in his territory, confused as all hell.  It was wrong that he was there, it was wrong for Derek to be touching him for some reason he felt, and the scent coming off of him was _definitely_ wrong.  Stiles tugged at his left foot and Derek let it go, not really knowing what else to do.  He could see from the way the boy levered himself up using Derek’s grip on his other foot while favoring that side that something was very wrong.    
    “Jesus,” he breathed when he finally saw it: almost the entire right side of his jacket was stained darker, and clung tightly to Stiles’ body.  Knowing the teen as he did (and shouldn't), he had to have at least three layers on under the jacket.  That was a lot of blood.  
    “Yeah.  They had something, I don’t know what it was but Kali was throwing it around like fucking confetti,” Stiles said as Derek dropped his foot.  He wavered on his feet and Derek caught him.  “I need to get it clean,” he whined, getting louder.  “I’m almost positive this is what napalm feels like.”  
    Derek ushered him into the parlor where he could lean on the couch to take his clothes off.  “Well, I don’t have a cistern but I did catch rain water in buckets.”  
    “Fucking mountain man, you are,” Stiles said, voice gaining a roughened edge as he eased his jacket off and down his arms.  Derek tried very hard not to listen to the boy’s wrecked pants as he went to the corner of the room where the roof was ripped away.  He hated the strange intimacy of vulnerability.  It was too close.   
    He carried a five gallon bucket back with him.  Stiles was visibly steeling himself to continue lifting his shirts over his head.  The jacket and plaid flannel were crumpled around his feet, and he had one arm free already.  His cheeks puffed out.  Then he whipped both shirts over his head.  His muffled shout blew out in one heaving breath between his gritted teeth; the gasps after were mostly silent.  He shook his head, smelling like the worst kind of sick sweat that Derek hated.  “Dude I think it scabbed to my shirt.”  Derek could hear the thickening of Stiles’ throat.  Great.  “Look can you rip it?  Please?”  
    “Must be serious if you’re saying please,” Derek said for lack of anything else.  He heard Stiles’ shortened laugh at the attempt.  And then, Derek did as Stiles had asked.    
    Stiles stopped breathing.    
    “Do you need a bucket?”  
    Stiles nodded and Derek reached for an empty one he had lying around.  He had been spending a lot of time out here lately.  He thought of that, of what he would do to the monument to his family and their deaths, instead of listening to the teen’s wretched heaving.    
    “Sorry ‘bout your nose, dude,” he croaked when he was done.    
    “It’s fine,” Derek replied on a sigh, crouching down and scooping water out of the water bucket with an empty soda can.  “I’ve never been much of a sympathy spewer anyway,” he mused as he shook it around, dumped it out, then refilled it to hold out to the human.  Stiles eyed it from where he was slumped against the plastic rim.  “Can you tell me what happened?”  He tried to look inviting, eyebrows raised, not growling.  Derek had no idea what to do with a messed up human.  What he could see of Stiles’ right side, which was facing him, was mangled and blackened and pockmarked and still oozing.  The napalm comment had been accurate: the skin looked to have melted, all the way down to his bottom rib, up past his arm and onto his neck.    
    “That’s what’s great about you talking,” he said conversationally.  “You don’t talk, you sing.”    
    Derek had a moment to stare at him deadpan, because the kid really noticed weird shit about people, but then Stiles’ eyes were rolling and he was pitching over one way while the bucket went the other.  The werewolf caught them both, righting the bucket while he eased Stiles onto his back.  His back seemed to have not taken any damage.  He winced when he caught a full view of the boy’s naked front.  The skin looked to be purpling in places.  And it reeked.    
    “Hey, hey, c’mon,” he said, lightly tapping Stiles’ cheek.  
    “Why does everyone think that works?” he replied in the same tone with his eyes closed, voice ragged.  
    “Worked on me,” Derek said.  
    “If you punch me,” Stiles said, eyes opening to catch the moonlight and shaking finger raised to point at Derek’s nose, “I am so not saving your ass next time.”  
    Derek reached over and grabbed the soda can - Dr. Pepper! - to brush against Stiles’ knuckles.  “I’m surprised I didn’t have to save your ass from yourself this time.”  
    Stiles leaned up on his left elbow, swishing water around his mouth and spitting it into the puke bucket instead of the floor.  Which was nice.  All things considered.    
    “How did you get here without getting lost?”  
    Stiles laughed at that, laying back and setting the can down to run his hand over his crown.  “I wish I could get lost in these woods.”  His eyes followed Derek’s hand to the soda can.  “My mom thought I was going to be the youngest Eagle scout ever.”  He tracked its rise up over his torso.

He gave a small nod when he finally met Derek’s eyes.  There was no gulp, no held breath, just that nod with his hand over his forehead and his lips slightly parted.  

    Derek waited to pour any water out until the thing was almost level with his skin.  He was trying to cause the teen as little pain as possible.  Not that that was possible at all.  
    Stiles’ eyes slid shut, and his hands fisted.  He kept his mouth closed around the scream.  It was awful to watch.  Derek hated this.  Especially after Stiles’ eyes popped open again.  “Oh shit, oh fuck, OW, no that made it worse, FUCK.”   
    Derek leaned back, seeing the skin start to smoke, then smelled it and realized what it had to be, what had probably happened.  “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, then picked up the entire bucket to dump right on Stiles’ stomach as forcefully as he could.  He ignored the boys shouts, splutter and outright screams.  He only had two more, and had to hope it was enough.  

The blackened, pockmarked sludge that resulted started turning red after the second bucket, and Derek set about scraping it off as gently as he could with his claws.  It came away mostly clean, as he knew it would.

“Oh my God, what the actual fuck,” Stiles said when he saw the black coming off, then reached to help.  Derek swatted his hand away.

    “Don’t touch it.”  It took speaking, hearing the growl in his voice and feeling his fangs poking into his tongue to realize he was angry enough to have shifted a bit.  He reined himself in, seeing the red recede from around his vision.  Unbelievable.  He knew the kanima had fucked things up royally as far as the Alphas were concerned, knew he was on the shit list on a cosmic level, but this was taking things too far.  This was exactly what he had been working to avoid when he built his pack.    
    He got all of the black, purple, and deep red scab off.  The skin underneath was unblemished save for the moles peppering the teen all over.  It just looked like a bad sunburn now.  Stiles was breathing hard, entire body heaving with the effort.    
    “Derek,” he groaned, “Derek- bucket!”      
    The Alpha hauled him up so he could throw up again, one hand braced against the rim of the bucket.    
    He started to slump back to the ground but Derek helpfully caught him by the back of the neck and splashed the contents of the forgotten soda can into his mouth.    
    “Mmm,” Stiles replied, and it sounded appreciative as he again swished his mouth out.  He jerked it towards the bucket, and Derek held him to spit.    
    Then he let him flop on the naked floorboards.  He shook his head, then met Derek’s eyes.  His question was clear.  Derek tried not to think too hard about how well he knew this human.  
    “That compound should be outlawed,” he said, voice edging into a growl.  He cast around for his cell phone.  “I’m calling Scott.”   
    “Scott lost his phone,” Stiles said weakly from the floor.  “Call Isaac.”  Then he moaned, arms crossing over his stomach.  Derek was sure it was cramping.  
    “Why was Isaac with you?” he bit out, turning when he found the device.   
    “Because you weren’t answering,” he slurred.  
    Derek cursed.  Of course.  Isaac had only called once, but Derek had been out here at the house and his beta had known that.  So he went to Scott when the Alphas were closing in on him, who was probably with Stiles, and the bitch had predicted that enough to be prepared for it.    
    He called Deaton instead.  The vet picked up on the first ring.  “They’re here.”  
    “I’ve got Stiles.”  He heard two moans of relief in the background, then more words than he had the patience for.  He growled into the phone, and they stopped.  “She hit him with a mix of hemlock and henbane,” he said into the silence.  
    “What the fuck is henbane,” Stiles said flatly, as Deaton made a soft noise of acknowledgement.    
    “I trust you got it off of him.”  
    “As much as I could, but he’s still puking.  I need help.”  
    “I’ll be there,” the vet said, and then hung up.  Derek turned back to Stiles, who was breathing shallowly and frowning.  The Alpha felt physically pained at the size of the angry red splotch across his body.  He took off his own shirt to sop at the bottom of a water bucket.    
    “They killed Scorates with hemlock,” Stiles said.  
    Derek shook his head.  “Shh.”  
    “No, dammit I need to know!” he shouted, face screwing up.  
    “Alright, alright,” Derek tried to soothe, spreading the wet shirt across as much of the red as it would reach.  Stiles’ breathing eased a little.  
    “The hemlock isn’t enough,” he began, and Stiles cut him off.  
    “Right, hemlock paralyzes, it makes you cold why am I on fucking FIRE.”  
    “Henbane, hey!”  He caught Stiles gaze.  “Henbane is what makes this worse.  And it only works on humans.”  
    Stiles stared up at him.  “Hu- me?  What a fucking-”  He curled his chin down, eyes scrunching closed and moaned through clenched teeth.  Derek watched his stomach contract.  He couldn’t take it anymore.  He reached out a hand, laying it along the seem of red and pasty pale skin, and pulled as much pain as he could out of the boy at once.    
    Stiles’ entire face went slack, eyes falling open to reveal the blown wide pupils Derek had overlooked before.  His head dropped back while his shoulders and legs arched up off the floor, entire body curling around Derek’s hand, one thigh coming to rest along his forearm.  A long moan escaped him while both of his hands wrapped around Derek’s wrist, and it was the easiest sound he had heard him make all night, and the werewolf hated his mind, where it took the image, hated how everything with everyone went back to that because of her, but she wasn’t there and Stiles was.  And Stiles’ entire chest inflated with his deepest breath since he got wet.  And it would have to be enough until Deaton got there, intimacy be damned.    
    “Will you be alright doin’ that?” Stiles slurred, mouth slack.  
    “It doesn’t affect me at all,” Derek lied.  There were some secrets to be kept from humans.  
    “I will service you sexually if you just keep that up,” the teen said.  Derek knew it was the relief from pain speaking, even with where his own mind was.  Sometimes that felt better than being pleasured, he knew.    
    “You wouldn’t,” he reminded the boy.  
    “I abso _lute_ ly would,” he argued with a wide smile.  His heartbeat remained steady.  Derek caught his eyes again, deciding to fix that then and there.  
    “You won’t,” he stated firmly.  
    Stiles made a noise of acknowledgement, then blew a short raspberry.  Derek could see his heart beat.  He watched it slow, then started to lean away.    
    The teen made a “nngh” of protest, grip tightening around his wrist, one finger stroking up his forearm and Derek could have roared.    
    “It won’t come back,” he said roughly.  “Not right away.”  
    Stiles whimpered, but loosened his hold.  Derek hated slipping his hand through those long fingers.  He hated the awareness, and again, the intimacy of seeing the teen wrecked and at his mercy.  He was so fucked up.    
    He turned on his knees to look towards the front of the house where Deaton had to be getting close.  He reached for any noise of any car.  
    “Derek?”  
    He sighed, not turning.  “What.”  
    “Can you knock me out?”  
    The werewolf did turn at that, one eyebrow raised.  The teen was staring straight up at the crumbling roof, one hand flat over the spot Derek’s hand had been.  Fuck.  
    “Not without leaving a dent.”  
    This attempt at levity garnered no reaction.  “I really don’t want to throw up again,” was his only miserable reply.    
    Derek crawled - actually crawled - over to the teen’s head and rubbed a hand over the crown as he had seen before.  Stiles’ eyes slipped closed.  “Help’s coming,” he said.  
    “Help’s already here,” he said, brows quirking in confusion and a tone of correction in his voice.  Then he reared up again, reaching for the bucket.    
    Derek felt his eyes flash red as he kept a hand on the small of Stiles’ naked back, and stopped resisting the curl of possessiveness inside.  The Alphas would pay. 


End file.
